As in an ancient procession,
as if someone were saying it is freezing outside,
a herd of buffalo has taken shelter
inside our everyday silence.
Like kids trapped in a flat
they sniff for a track,
something that will relieve boredom.
An exhausted buffalo drops to the carpet.
Is it his fate to die like that,
instead of letting himself be led one night
across the snow-covered plain?
Resting you look like a sick animal-
not hurt, not harassed by a huntsman,
Is this the way animals die-
deceived, like us, amidst the landscape's quietness?
Traducción Laura Chalar